


The Curse of Being In Love

by AppleSharon



Series: (I Wanna) Call It Love [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Matchmaker Bentley, Pining, a lot of Queen lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 08:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSharon/pseuds/AppleSharon
Summary: "’Cause love’s such an old-fashioned wordAnd love dares you—"“Oh, I’m not daring enough for you, am I?”The Bentley decided to switch gears. Figuratively, of course.Crowley has had enough of talking to his houseplants about his perceived unrequited love of Aziraphale and goes to the Bentley for advice. The Bentley answers in the only way it knows how: copious amounts of Queen lyrics.





	The Curse of Being In Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a larger work but can be read as a standalone "chat" between Crowley and the Bentley.
> 
> [Crowley's perspective can be found here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060/chapters/45813511)
> 
> [Aziraphale's perspective can be found here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080/chapters/45610162)
> 
> Sorry for the initial formatting issues. They should be fixed now. T_T

Plants (_plantae sensu lato_) in a broad sense, included everything from green algae to red algae to glaucophyte algae and any other potential plant one could think of save fungi and bacteria. These had been included in now-archaic classifications, but had been separated as human science had evolved over the years. 

This classification certainly included anything and everything that could be found in one Anthony J. Crowley’s Mayfair flat.

The majority of Crowley’s plants were houseplants — chlorophytum comosum (spider plant), nephrolepis exaltata (Boston fern), ficus pumila (creeping fig), howea forsteriana (kentia palm), pilea cadierei (aluminum plant) — along with myriad succulents, cacti, and indoor palms. In stark contrast to the modern and bare minimalism of the rest of the flat, Crowley’s sitting room was an exercise in excess, resembling a Victorian-era solarium.

It was the space that was the most true to Crowley’s essence, although he’d hardly admit it if asked — and Aziraphale was the only being who had suggested such during his one visit to Crowley’s flat — instead hissing about how superior his plants were to any other houseplants in London with a “I don’t know what you’re on about with ‘essence,’ angel they’re just plants. As long as they know their place.”

Despite Crowley’s bluster, much of his time spent in the flat was also spent in that very sitting room — yelling at the plants to keep them in line, basking in the sun in the centre of the floor like a snake, or yelling at the plants about whatever was on his mind at the time. Over the years, the two dominant subjects in Crowley’s yelling were the stupidity of his Hellish compatriots and, if he was feeling particularly masochistic and was likely drunk, his feelings towards Aziraphale. 

The older plants knew nearly everything about Crowley’s angel — as they would say if they could speak — reaching small tendrils out to the trembling younger plants in solidarity. After all, in their experience, Crowley hadn’t actually hurt any of them. At times, they felt quite badly for him, but of course, couldn’t vocalize this either. Instead, they trembled at the correct times to make Crowley think he was a remarkably intimidating specimen and flourished under his otherwise quite normal, albeit fastidious, care. 

Crowley had been talking to his plants for two days straight and while he hadn’t run out of things to say — he could talk about Aziraphale for inordinate amounts of time — they couldn’t talk back and he was growing tired of his flat, especially when Aziraphale hadn’t called. 

This is how the demon found himself wearily eyeing his 1926 Bentley. The black paint gleamed in the sun, refracting off of the automobile’s sharper edges as if it was winking at Crowley, inviting him in. 

For all Crowley knew, it was. 

Although he’d acquired the Bentley from the factory line, the car had only grown in cheek since Crowley had begun driving it. It was as if the metaphysical nature of its owner had accumulated over the years, culminating in transforming every attempt to play music into a song off of Queen’s _Greatest Hits_ album released in 1981. 

Naturally, being Crowley’s car, and additionally spending more time with the demon as of late than the plants in Crowley’s flat — Crowley had spent so little time in his flat over the past eleven years — the Bentley not only knew Crowley in a different way than the plants, but he knew Aziraphale because Aziraphale had been in the Bentley. 

Had the Bentley been able to chat with the plants, it would have lorded this fact over them just a bit. 

This meant that the Bentley knew not only of Crowley’s feelings, but of how Crowley reacted to Aziraphale. And of how Aziraphale reacted to Crowley. 

The Bentley thought that they were both idiots, often trying to nudge them in each others’ direction with timely song choices and jerky, but not too convenient, swerves that naturally sent their shoulders colliding. Crowley would tremble and grip the steering wheel more tightly. Aziraphale would tremble and grip the passenger’s side of the car. And both would look away from each other, blushing furiously. 

For his part, Crowley found the Bentley endlessly embarrassing in these moments, similar to how a human child would regard an inconvenient but well-meaning intervention from a parent. He also loved the car unconditionally and the car, as much as it could and in its own vehicular way, reciprocated these feelings for Crowley. 

Which is why Crowley sighed before swallowing his pride, opening the driver’s side door, and sitting down. He turned the key in the ignition — Crowley didn’t need to, but as much as he teased Aziraphale about living centuries behind the times, he enjoyed driving the Bentley with his own two hands, just as he enjoyed tending to the plants in the same way — and gripped the steering wheel. 

“Listen here, we’re going to go for a drive. I’m going to talk, you’re going to listen.”

The Bentley purred. In one smooth motion, Crowley’s fingertips barely brushing the leather of the steering wheel, the Bentley pulled away from the kerb and into the street. 

Crowley had taken the Bentley for drives through the city, but hadn’t ventured outside of city limits since the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. The Bentley’s (and Crowley’s) time had been much better spent driving to places with Aziraphale in the passenger’s seat, exploring London with a fresh perspective. He was quiet until the car crossed the M25 while on the M23 travelling south. 

“Are you taking me to Crawley. Really?”

_She keeps her Moet et Chandon  
In her pretty cabinet—_

“Don’t you start,” Crowley growled, tapping his fingers against worn leather. 

_At anytime an invitation  
You can’t decline_

“There haven’t been any invitations, that’s part of the problem.” 

_Perfume came naturally from Paris (naturally)  
For cars she couldn’t care less_

“Yes remind me once more of how much he hates you, you incomprehensible tin can.”

The Bentley roared forward with a stutter, shooting past a sign for Bletchingley. Unfazed, Crowley dragged a hand through his hair, pulling at it before moving his fingers down to his earlobe and nervously tugging on that as well. He scratched at his sideburns and his black snake tattoo. 

_Turned away from it all like a blind man  
Sat on a fence but it don’t work_

“Oi! I go too fast for him remember? You were there for that part!”

_Keep coming up with love but it’s so slashed and torn  
Why, why, why?_

After more hair-pulling, scratching, and earlobe tugging — with Freddie Mercury’s voice echoing “love” at an increasingly higher volume — Crowley sighed. 

“The point is, ’Under Pressure’ isn’t even on the Greatest Hits album.”

_Can’t we give ourselves one more chance?_  
_Why can’t we give love that one more chance?_  
_Why can’t we give love, give love, give love, give love_

“Alright, I get it, yes, I’m in love with Aziraphale. But you already knew that!”

_’Cause love’s such an old-fashioned word  
And love dares you—_

“Oh, I’m not daring enough for you, am I?”

The Bentley decided to switch gears. Figuratively, of course. 

_Bring it back, bring it back_  
_Don’t take it away from me, because you don’t know_  
_What it means to me_

“OH REEEEEEAAAAAALLY NOW!”

Outside of the car, a sign for Outwood sailed by as the Bentley picked up speed, continuing to blast a live recording of Queen’s “Love of My Life.”

Crowley banged his fist on the steering wheel. Wincing as the Bentley jumped a bit, the demon smoothed his hands over the worn patches at the ten and two positions. 

“I’m not the one that pulled away! He did!”

_You will remember_  
_When this is blown over_  
_Everything’s all by the way_  
_When I grow older_  
_I will be there at your side to remind you_  
_How I still love you (I still love you)_

“I will be. I’ll always be there. Even if…” 

Crowley’s voice cracked. The Bentley wasn’t certain as to whether the demon was talking to him at all anymore. 

_Spread your wings and fly away_  
_Fly away far away_  
_Pull yourself together_  
_‘Cause you know you should do better_  
_That’s because you’re a free man_

“Don’t you EVER suggest that I can do better than—“ Crowley sputtered, returning to pounding on the steering wheel ferociously.

“I will send you to a scrap heap tomorrow,” he said icily. 

If the Bentley were human, it would have slapped Crowley upside the head. Naturally it wasn’t suggesting that Crowley could do better, but that Crowley himself could do better about expressing his feelings. That maybe, in this post-not-Apocalyptic world, Crowley’s angel would be more receptive to them. After all, the Bentley had seen how Aziraphale looked at Crowley while Crowley wasn’t looking. 

_Don’t stop me now, I’m having such a good time  
I’m having a ball_

Crowley relaxed a bit, easing a hand away from the car and nervously into his own hair again. 

The Bentley sped up even faster, weaving in and out of traffic on the M23, bound for the A264 just below Crawley — for the car’s own personal amusement, it could have easily taken the A3 to its destination and shaved a half hour off of the time — and above Pease Pottage. The demon didn’t say anything for quite some time, lost in thought as the Bentley was content to play through “Don’t Stop Me Now” and “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” on loop for a while. 

As the car eased onto the A264 towards Horsham, it decided to prod the demon a bit. 

_I’m the invisible man_  
_I’m the invisible man_  
_Incredible how you can_  
_See right through me_

Crowley waved his hand in the air. When he spoke, he sounded defeated. 

“Yeah, you can see right through me, okay. I love Aziraphale. Go ahead, laugh at me or something.”

_I’d like for you and I to go romancing  
Say the word, your wish is my command_

Crowley laughed. He had long abandoned the pretense that he was anything but lovesick. This was just between him and the Bentley, and the Bentley had already attempted his particular embarrassment by playing “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” in front of Aziraphale, en route to the Ritz no less. 

Fortunately the angel hadn’t appeared to have a clue about it. Aziraphale had simply smiled and tapped his manicured fingers against the window with a pleased wiggle. 

“So I should romance him, eh?”

The demon leaned back and closed his eyes. 

“I go too fast for him,” Crowley said softly. 

_Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine precisely_  
_(One two three four five six seven eight nine o’ clock)_  
_I will pay the bill, you taste the wine_  
_Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely_  
_Just take me back to yours that will be fine (come on and get it)_

“I don’t want to push him into something he doesn’t want.”

Once again, it should be reiterated that the Bentley was a car and not a human. Were it human, it would have bashed Crowley upside the head in frustration. 

There was only one song that would do in this particular situation: bass guitarist John Deacon’s song for his wife, Veronica Tetzlaff, “You’re My Best Friend.” In the Bentley’s somewhat expert opinion, it was the most romantic of all of Queen’s discography, although no one had asked it personally for it to give that answer. 

_Ooh you make me live_  
_Whatever this world can give to me_  
_It’s you you’re all I see_

A tear slid out from behind the demon’s dark glasses. The Bentley hummed with pride, turning onto Stane Street before hopping onto the A29, then the A272. 

Crowley hummed along with the song, mouthing “I really love you, Oh you’re my best friend.”

As the song came to an end, the Bentley turned up a dirt path, a few kilometers past a sign for South Downs National Park and a smaller realtor’s sign advertising a cottage for sale. 

Confused, Crowley looked around at their surroundings as the Bentley pulled into a dirt drive and parked itself. He wasn’t certain as to why the Bentley had brought him here specifically and said as such aloud. 

Still running, the car simply restarted “You’re My Best Friend.”

***

Crowley was exhausted, although at least he had convinced the Bentley to take the proper way back to London through the A3. His conversation — if one could call it that — with the car and it’s destination had been somewhat illuminating, or at the very least, reassuring. Still, Crowley wished for nothing more than to sink into his expensive high-thread count sheets and nap.

That was, until the telephone rang — his landline phone, not his mobile — and he heard Aziraphale’s voice speaking excitedly to his answering machine. 

“Crowley, my dear, it’s Aziraphale! I can never quite get the hang of these messaging machines so I hope you’ll forg— ah, I do hope you’ll ignore the fact that I’m not likely to do this ‘in style’ as you say. As it so happens, I was feeling a bit peckish after a short trip today and what do you know there was a table open at the Ritz for tonight at half past our usual time. Could I tempt you to dine with me this evening? There are a few things I would like to discuss with you.”

The Ritz sounded perfect to Crowley. He pocketed his keys and walked back out the door of his flat, “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” popping into his head immediately.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is actually from a song by Sondre Lerche, in keeping with the titles of other fics in the series. 
> 
> Queen songs in order of appearance!
> 
> "Killer Queen"  
"Under Pressure"  
"Love of My Life"  
"Spread Your Wings"  
"Don't Stop Me Now"  
"Crazy Little Thing Called Love" (mentioned)  
"The Invisible Man"  
"Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy"  
"You're My Best Friend"


End file.
